Monday, November 25, 2013

On Thanksgiving, my memory transports
me to my childhood home and the aroma of roasting turkey, sage dressing,
candied yams, pumpkin pies and yeast rolls; the busyness of my mother in a warm
kitchen; the gathering of family members laughing and enjoying each other's
company; and my father's visible delight with the entire event.

My mother was an excellent cook. The
eldest of five children, it was normal for her to help her mother with the
cooking, cleaning and looking after her younger siblings. By the time she was
married, at 18, she was adept at housekeeping and cooking.

But, for some reason, she never
taught me to cook. I had chores to do, but when I offered to help with a meal,
she said something like, "I'm in a hurry" or "You can help by
staying out of the kitchen."

Is it any wonder, then, that when I
married, at 18, I could barely boil water? My young husband loved to eat. He
must have been terribly disappointed. However, he ate whatever I managed to put
together and rarely complained.

His mother blessed me with a Better
Homes and Gardens cookbook, and I learned to make some decent meals and showed
a particular flair for baking. Still, I'd never be a culinary artist.

We'd been married three years when my
parents announced they would be in Cincinnati visiting my elderly grandparents
on Thanksgiving. My mother-in-law was recuperating from surgery, so there was
no chance of getting an invitation to her Thanksgiving table. We'd be on our
own for the first time on this major holiday, just the two of us and our young
son.

Opening her purse, my mother handed
me a wad of papers. "Here are some notes that will help you with your
dinner. I've written step-by-step instructions for everything, starting with
the turkey and stuffing."

"I'm not sure I can do it!"
I said, butterflies already forming in my stomach at the thought of making a
turkey and all the trimmings.

"You'll do just fine," she
said. "I've even included a list of things to buy at the grocery
store."

I baked a pumpkin pie the night
before the big day. That wasn't too difficult. After breaking up bread and corn
bread for stuffing, and chopping onions and celery, I decided to turn in so I
could get up early and get that big bird in the oven.

My husband and I were up before daybreak.
We had a lot to do and, although I was a little excited about cooking my first
holiday dinner, I was also nervous.

I was thankful to have help handling
the 21-pound turkey. We washed it well, greased it with cooking oil, salted it
inside and out and placed it in the pan. No fancy roaster, this. It was a dark
blue enamel pan with no lifting rack to hoist the turkey out when it was done.
But we'd seen our mothers do it many times with two large forks and were sure
we could do it too.

Once it was in the oven, temperature
set to 325 degrees, as the instructions ordered, it was time to make the
stuffing, peel and cook potatoes and prepare other vegetables.

As the aroma of roast turkey began to
float through the house, memories of other Thanksgivings flooded my senses. I
felt happy and sad at the same time.

Those are the holiday memories of my
childhood, I thought. I'm making new memories and traditions with my own family
now. There's room in my heart for both.

Checking the turkey gave us a
surprise -- it was coming along nicely. It looked moist, a little brown and it
smelled heavenly. I basted it carefully and put it back in the oven. It was
about halfway there, we surmised.

Finally, the table set, vegetables
cooked and fruit salad ladled into individual bowls, we waited for the turkey
so we could use its rich broth to moisten the sage dressing.

"It's been over four
hours," I said. "According to Mother's notes, it should be
done."

I opened the oven door, and my
husband lifted the hot pan out of the oven and placed it on the table beside
the huge platter that awaited.

As we surveyed the turkey, our eyes
widened.

This bird was a masterpiece! Perfect!
Golden brown like the ones you see in magazine ads. I smiled. Now to get it out
of the pan.

Placing a large serving fork in each
end of the turkey, my husband prepared to lift the large bird out of the pan
and onto the platter. But in midair, something happened. A wing fell off. Plop!
Greasy broth spattered the countertop.

"Oh, no!" I said.

About that time, the other wing went.
Then a drumstick. And another. There was no stopping it. It was like a
landslide. Every bit of meat on that turkey slid right off the bones into the
broth. We had turkey soup!

My smile turned to tears. "I
should have known I couldn't do it!"

Ever the optimist, my husband said,
"It'll be fine." He picked up a small piece of the displaced poultry
and tasted it. "Mmmm," he said. "It's delicious! C'mon, let's
put it on the platter. We don't even have to slice it."

We laughed.

Somehow, I finished the dinner, we
ate and actually enjoyed it. I was grateful our son was too young to
understand.

That night, my mother phoned.
"Well, how was your first Thanksgiving dinner?" she asked.

"Wonderful!" I said.
"My turkey looked like a magazine ad, and it was so good; not dry at
all."